Impractical

Ok, I admit it, I bought an impractical, red, not-your-mother's bra. And the matching panties, if you must know. But this was a special event, one that called for special dress, and I had found said special dress, and it required the aforementioned impractical undergarments. And I have to say, they were well-appreciated.

In my own defense, I did try picking it up at the brick & mortar store nearby, but they didn't have my size in stock, as they cater to the teens who pour in every Wednesday afternoon, their early dismissal day. Online it was.

So I wasn't surprised when their catalogue arrived in the mailbox. I'm slightly irritated with the one they enclose with the order (didn't I just buy something?), but I sigh at the identical one that arrives a week later. Don't they remember they sent it with the order. Or recall it was an online purchase? Seems they track all my other buying habits. Why would I want paper? I call the 800-number on the back, dutifully recite my quick service number, and chuck it in the recycle bin, much to the chagrin of my future firefighter.

And then they start arriving. The other catalogues, from outfits I've never heard of. There have been two this week alone, and it's only Thursday. That's right, they sold the list during those two weeks I was on it, and the snowball effect has taken hold.

Dear merchant, enough is enough. It's in everyone's best interest to add a simple little checkbox: "no paper catalogue" to your website. Save the postage, save the trees, save my time and yours. Because even practical, considered people need impractical, pretty things in their lives.

In the can

He was in my dreams last night, uninvited, but certainly welcome, as it has been too many years since I have seen him. He looked relaxed and happy, relieved of the suffering that plagued the last years of his life, and clearly enjoying the sweet monologue of Little One, the grandchild who barely remembers him, as he held hands with my mother, who was uncharacteristically silent, not making any comments about why I was tying gingerbread ornaments on the cello teacher's laurel hedge. I still haven't figured out the ornaments (perhaps because we are headed into the holidays?) and the hedge (the cello teacher's house doesn't have one), but I welcome visits from those who have passed over the rainbow bridge, and am comforted to know that I will still be able to visit every now and then after I have made that journey.

So, it seemed a perfectly normal thing to do, making pancakes for the boys' breakfast on this crisp autumn morning. It was, after all, my father who taught me to make pancakes on a morning similar to this, to use bacon grease in the cast iron pan from freshly cooked bacon and the can for that perfectly golden edge.

Yes, I did say can. You see, my parents came from a time where no one could afford to waste, and one of the things that is still present in my mother's home is an old tin can next to the stove with bacon grease in it. The heavy cast iron pan lived on the stove (never made it into the cupboard), and the hot grease was poured straight into the can, to be used for pancakes and any other dish that might need a bit of grease to preserve the cast iron's cure and add a bit of flavor.

At some point, I realized I was using olive oil by the case, but was having to add back the odd bit of bacon or prosciutto to flavor the base of whatever pot-au-feu was bubbling on the flames. At some point, I caught myself pouring bacon grease into the food waste container (our municipality composts food waste, including the grease that would attract too many rodents to our cool heap), and stopped dead in my tracks.

How could I lament industrial processes like refining flour that take out the good and then have to put chemically extracted vitamins as artificial, if I was essentially doing the same thing to my own coq au vin? I set down the hot pan, rummaged through the recycle bin for a tin can (looks like Number One had chili for lunch--again) and poured the grease in there instead.

As a child, my parents had bacon for breakfast nearly every day, so the can filled faster than it could be emptied. In our household, where bacon is a weekend affair, the can never empties all the way, but it never seems to get very full either. I'd like to think my father would smile at that as well.

The pleasantness of surprise

"Isn't it wonderful," he marveled with that twinkle in his eye, "that every time we make love, it's different? Sometimes quick, sometimes slow, sweaty and cool, furious and calm. Never the same way twice, but always amazing. Don't you agree?"

She returned his glance with a sly smile and arched eyebrows. "Oh, I don't know," she said. "In fact, I think there's a good case to be made for sameness, a sort of McDonald's approach to marital bliss, if you will. Imagine knowing exactly what to expect--the same every time!" She nuzzled in, close to his ear. "Think of it, standardized lovemaking, no surprises, either unpleasant or pleasant. Wouldn't that be reassuring!"

He smiled and nuzzled back, "Ah, so you agree."

*****

With the gift of a few quiet hours today thanks to my Darling Husband, I took my time in the market, allowing myself to look at items that don't usually land in my cart. An intent-looking fellow crossed my path, reached in to a familiar spot on the shelf, and took a can, only glancing at the label long enough to make sure he got the right thing--the thing that he presumably always buys. I looked at my usual canned tomatoes, and opted instead for the small (and BPA-free) aseptic box of tomatoes. Yes, I will use these in tonight's spaghetti sauce, along with a good number of the tomatoes from the farm, where summer has finally taken hold.

At home, the sauce does look different; the sausage and onion are the same, but they are joined by sweet peppers and carrots and lovely heirloom tomatoes, yellow, black and green. The boys note the difference in appearance right away, but the first taste wins them over. "It's different," mumbles Number One, with his mouth full. Little One finishes his sentence with a slurp: "But really good."

*****

Little One has the bright idea of making our own sorbet from some roadside blackberries. I recall a chapter in The Curious Cook by Harold Magee where he discusses ratios of fruit to sugar and water in terms of flavor and scoopability, so we pull it off the shelf. I wend my way through the passages preceding the recipe tables, and smile to myself when I reach the part where his mathematical formulae fall victim to the vagaries of fruit's natural sugar content, which depends on many factors, many of which are unknown and certainly beyond the control of the casual cook.

Yes, we use recipes to provide ourselves with predictable results. But when we always reach for the same package, we deprive ourselves of the unpredictable and pleasant surprises that nature willingly gives us. We need to find the freedom within ourselves to diverge from our usual paths. Ah, but you say, for things like baking, we need to follow the recipe exactly. To which I say piffle, remembering the sweltering weekend when the wedding cake would not rise even though the math said it should. Nature, like the love of a good woman, will not be made predictable. Isn't it wonderful?

Ode to oatmeal

I have been a bit under the weather, tired, not 100%, not firing on all cylinders, if you want to reduce me to an internal combustion engine. I could be an uncurable optomist and note that the slowing economy has made it easy for me to get my work done, but alas, "refilling my tank" by taking naps only seems to make me come up with more brilliant ideas that need tending.

Part of the problem is information. It's everywhere, and it means that even if I decide to lounge in my pajamas for half a day and wallow in tissue and pity, I can still take in information that is seemingly unrelated, even if I'm not capable of stringing together a few words into a coffee break read for you.

This morning is the case in point: A cup of tea from my Darling Husband brought bedside was the harbinger of a Day Off. No, said he, they can sort bugs without me, I’ll drive carpool, you stay in bed and rest up. I was too tired to put up a fight, downed the tea, and resumed snoozing. Upon awakening, I had only to reach over the side of the bed, where the aforementioned Darling Man had placed my laptop. Once the wireless bars lit up, I eventually learned that life was marching on (I read the comics before the headlines), that I had somehow once again managed to miss all but one of the films nominated for best picture by the Academy (and that was only because they have doubled the number of nominees), and that Ani in England had had a bowl of oatmeal five minutes prior. You would think I would be more compelled by the TED lecture posted on sharing data on medical conditions or the news item that a citizenship request for a man who required his wife to wear a burqua was denied by the French. But I kept coming back to that lowly bowl of oatmeal.

And so I ventured out from under my warm quilt to the kitchen and found it. There, behind the instant variety that lures Little One out of his own lair, next to the tub of homemade granola: the yellow paper bag that made the trek from the Olde Country, Irish oatmeal. Which explains that steaming bowl of warm goodness that is warming my belly far more than the hot water bottle ever could.

Winter

It is winter's darkest hour; we passed the official marker just a few days ago, but even as the houses glow with icicle lights and trees in front windows, the earth sleeps. Unlike excited little boys straining to hear hooves on the roof. In the kitchen, the local roast is sitting on the counter salted, waiting to enter the hot oven in a few hours.

Our vegetable stores are slowly emptying from the bounty of the fall harvest: first the frost-tinged greens, made all the sweeter by Jack's kisses, then the crcucifers and squashes; we are now into the roots. A generous handful of Brussels sprouts made it this far, and by coddling them and sacrificing the outer leaves to the compost heap (oh, if I had chickens, how happy they would be today!), we will have greens on the table. Some of the parsnips and beetroot will join the roast and last of the fingerling potatoes in the oven.

We still have five weeks before our weekly deliveries from the farm resume. But all is not entirely bleak. We have pears, and the little bundles of sunlight that my family call "Christmas oranges" have burst on the scene. We are fortunate to live in an era and area where we may choose to eat local, and supplement those dark days with sunshine from faraway.

In some cases, very far away: A bottle of red wine from France will come off the rack, set aside for such a day. Spices that filled the corners of our cases when we returned from Morocco released their prize under the pestle yesterday, and joined nuts and candied fruits in holiday baked goods, some of which were offered on a plate in front of the fireplace last night by children waiting to be nestled snug in their beds. And chocolate from places so distant we have never been there, warming our hands in hefty mugs, drunk under warm wooly blankets and in the glow of candles on the tree.

We may be assaulted this time of year by the loud jingles and incessant chatter reminding us to consume for the sake of our loved ones, to save money by getting everything we need for our table from one national chain store at unbelievable prices. But I for one shall snuggle into the warmth of family and small treasures chosen or crafted with love, and let the bounty of the now faded sunlight grace our table and nourish our souls.

And so I send my wishes for warmth and peace to you in this quiet season.

Familiarity

The Fascination Waltz begins and I step into his arms. At the right juncture in the musical phrase, we begin moving together, our feet and bodies remembering for us. It is a familiar dance, and one we have repeated countless times. I can close my eyes, knowing that I can feel where he will lead me; I can rely on him completely. I love this feeling of being lost in the music and steps together, with the rest of the world and its worries miles away.

I unlatch the case and pull back the velvet cloth. I pull out the bow first, tightening it, checking if it needs rosin. Setting down the bow, I take out my violin and the shoulder rest, fixing its squeaky rubber feet to the back of the instrument. Picking up my bow, I tune, A string first, then D, G and finally the E, reaching under my bow arm to turn the fine tuner on the tailpiece. There is comfort in the ritual, as much a part of warming up as running scales, a chance to reacquaint myself with an old friend.

There on the counter is a stick of butter I took from the fridge after breakfast. Unwrapping it, I cut large yellow chunks that fall into the flour and release a tiny puff of dust. My pastry knife is old, an estate sale find from my college days, and I relish the feel of the smooth wood handle. I use its blades, turned out from one sheet of metal, to cut the butter into the flour, a comforting gesture, full of promise.

The plums are still green around the edges, but are soft and dripping with juice. It will be a good year, I think. I roll out dough for the tart pan, prick it, and fill it with a spiral of the golden-fleshed fruit. There is still a fair amount of dough left, so I grab a small pie pan and slice up the two large apples our favorite tree gave us this week. A garnish of cinnamon and sugar, some oats and butter streusel, and it joins the queue for the oven. The smallish ball rolls out to fit one of the play tins from the kids, and receives a dusting of cornstarch and handful of blueberries from the fridge. And, like the top of Mr. Willoughby’s Christmas tree, the tiny nub of leftover dough becomes a pocket in my hand to hold a dollop of jam (Rote Grutze-raspberries, strawberries and red currants), destined for the open mouth of my dance partner for life.

Love in a bowl

“Mama!”

“Mmmph?” Oooh, who sanded my throat?

“The screen fell out of my window!”

“Mmmphg. ‘k. I’m coming.”

“See? I was jumping over there, and it fell out!” How did I sleep through that?

“I see. There, all fixed” (Can I go back to bed now?)

“Mama?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m hungry!” He must be feeling better. Wish I did.

“Oatmeal?”

“Triple berry! Triple berry! Triple berry!”

“OK. Triple berry.”

“Orange juice?”

“OK.”

Later, Darling Husband more than earns his keep by coming home to entertain a not-quite-well-enough-to-go-to-school-today Little One, and to bring me a bowl of steaming hot chicken soup. The savory yellow broth soothes my throat and makes me feel just a little bit better. And most certainly loved.

Dress rehearsal

During our visit to Germany this spring, I made the Persian Love Cake for two newly wed friends. With the cake still in their mouths, they blushingly made a request: would I help them plan their stateside reception by tasting wedding cake, since I clearly knew what they liked? It was easy to agree.

Home again, I dutifully went to the website of their prospective caterer, and looked over the offerings. Drop-dead gorgeous, special cakes indeed, and the flavor combinations sounded lovely for a July garden party filled with laughing children and flowing dresses. But there was a voice whispering in the back of my mind, and it started to rant loudly when I started looking at the prices and paired it with the look on our friends’ faces when the rose cake came out of the fridge.

I have a composition book where I scribble random eco-foodie thoughts, and the page for that day has a big question circled: Could I make it myself?

I begin mulling over the idea, but know I need more information. I turn to the library, which yields books with numerous variations of elegant tiered structures. I learn that the engineering isn’t a huge issue; it’s all basic support systems – circles and dowels – to keep layers from squishing each other. But looks aren’t what I’m interested in. My cake is all about texture, a sensual experience for the mouth. These books talk only about appearances. They don’t address scaling up the softness of my saffron whipped cream and candied rose petals, instead suggesting hard, inedible royal icing swags and piped flowers. I’m not sure it’s possible to do what I want.

I turn to friends: I recall that my friendly dessert rival Rick once made a wedding cake for friends, and posted a web site detailing the entire process. I read it through twice, filling the rest of that notebook page with answers and as many questions. My notes have the word “Cake Bible” underscored three times, and a school parking lot meeting has him handing over his dog-eared copy (the marginalia are informative, alternating scathing and gushing), along with cake pans and a Styrofoam “cake” for practicing with a pastry tube. Rose Levy Berenbaum’s tome falls open to a picture of a pistachio rose wedding cake. It is clearly meant to be, and within fifteen minutes, I am online, ordering a copy for myself. I am ashamed to admit that my shelf is missing this exquisite book, one that talks not only of construction techniques but considers the texture of the cake—and then tells me how to achieve it.

I know then that I can do this, though it is equally clear that it will call for planning and some serious test kitchen runs. My family is game for the testing phase, they assure me. Emboldened, I call our friends in Switzerland and pop the question: May I make their cake? They say yes, yes, yes!

Everything I read tells me that wedding cakes are butter cakes with buttercream frosting. My cake, when I make it at home, is a light génoise with a fluffy whipped cream coat. Joy tells me I need a sturdy cake; Mastering the Art talks about icing: fondant, buttercream, ganache, all solid. But I really want my soft génoise and whipped cream. Rose (for we are now soul mates and on a first-name basis, though she never calls me) comes to my rescue, assuring me that stabilizing whipped cream is not only possible, but will give me that tongue-yielding texture I desire in a package that can endure July afternoon temperatures. I must, however have a cream with between 35 and 40 percent fat content. A call to the 800 number on the back of the Organic Valley whipping cream reveals that its fat content is a whopping 38%. The reticent Midwesterner on the phone is a bit taken aback by my enthusiastic reaction, but I’m too busy with my happy dance to notice. Things are falling into place.

Armed with little génoise cupcakes, I devise a nefarious test to abuse frosting subjects A, B, and C. Frosting A is stabilized with cornstarch, cooked into the cream (handy, since I must heat the cream to infuse the saffron anyway); B is my unadulterated recipe, and C is an attempt to stabilize with gelatin (ironically, I have gelatin in my cupboard only because one of the brides handed it to me in a grocery bag during their move last year). C is by all accounts a failure—my fault, not Rose’s, since she warned me not to beat it too long, and I allowed myself to be distracted by an overly cute child. We left A & B out for long hours under hot lights, refrigerated them without covering overnight, and repeated the cycle. Visitors to our home were recruited to help evaluate the guinea pig cupcakes, and the results were resounding: B, while tasty, was drooping, so beautiful, tasty, yielding A wins. We have our frosting, and I know that I can eschew the piped look for the gentle cream wisps and rose petals.

Ah, the roses. Last year's roses were from that self-same bride’s garden, now under new ownership. I must find a new source for roses. I call the co-op, and they apologetically tell me they just can’t guarantee a source. Hmm. No problem, I think: all the wedding cake books I’ve read make it sound like a simple matter to just call up the florist and ask for unsprayed roses. I systematically work my way through the yellow pages, and only one florist, Lawrence in Bellevue, deigns to reply, telling me that I really don’t want his roses, for beautiful as they are, they are bred for appearance not fragrance and sprayed far too much to risk eating. He is, however, willing to help sample the baking! I relate this exchange to some parents at pickup that afternoon: an eco-reactionist friend tells me of the 230-odd chemicals that are sprayed on the roses she just picked up at Whole Foods, and the cello teacher-cum-friend quietly mentions she has beautiful, pink, fragrant roses that bloom early, and she never sprays. I smile and ask if I may have some. Yes, indeed, she says, though her motivations are not entirely altruistic—she has heard of this cake and has a soft spot for cardamom. She’s very happy to help test, should the need arise. My ranks of willing guinea pigs are swelling.

Now I only have to figure out two more things: how to actually make the cake, when all I have is a hand mixer and a 6-cup Cuisinart, and how to present it.

I figure I’ll tackle the easier matter first. I heard to the cupboard and measure all my platters. My largest is 14” in diameter, but not flat. I need something designed for the task—I can’t envision a towering cake on a tiny plate. I search for cake plates online, and discover the large silver-plated display pedestals commonly used by professionals. Yikes, though—ninety dollars for something I’d use once and that looks, well, too traditional for my purposes. eBay does a bit better on pricing, but shipping erases any advantage. I decide I’m not ready to buy a plateau, but I do look at some of the support systems for sale, and find that there are very reasonable plastic cake rounds that will fit the bill. I carefully note those specifications for later. A few days later, I’m enjoying a morning cuddle in Little One’s bed, and I look up at the delightful recycled glass icicles and hearts from Bedrock Industries that we used to embellish the IKEA light fixture: I hop downstairs, and look online at the glass curtains they make to spec. The prices are comparable to the cookie-cutter cake plates on eBay, but I can easily see myself using a handmade glass plate in many scenarios. I make a call, and Chris assures me that it should be no problem to make up something to fulfill my image—just come in some day and we’ll chat.

Which leaves only the cake itself. Rose tells me I can have my génoise, but no larger than 12 inches in diameter, and I trust her. It's still a lot of cake to make in one go, though. I think of the people from whom I bought my violin. Grounded Henry, often humming over his luthier’s workbench, is complemented by effusive Debbie, who, discovering that I bake too, leads me with a grin into the back room. Their typical 50s suburban storage room sports a wall of honey-bottomed violins and violas on one side and heavy aluminum professional baking appliances on the other. He is a third-generation luthier; she comes from professional bakers. In a place of honor stands an A200 Hobart – twenty quarts of pure mixing pleasure. We exchange baking war stories, and she says to let her know if I’d ever like to borrow it. Is she kidding? I shoot off an email, and, yes, she remains enthusiastic about sharing her toy.

The scene is set.

Warm fuzzies

I am feeling awash in positive vibes. Riding high from our biggest and most delicious couscous party ever, I can’t help but think of the grocery list of little things that cheer me:

1. My in-laws tell me that their rain barrel is full. This may not sound earth shattering, but the fact that these right-leaning Southern Germans even have a rain barrel is quite encouraging. I recall a time when our president appeared on television, wearing an Izod sweater à la Mr. Rogers, and encouraged us to turn down the thermostat and put on a sweater instead. It became non-partisan to conserve energy. Back then, only eco-freaks would have done that in Germany. Now the tables are turned, with rain barrels de rigueur and solar panels available at the hardware store in the Vaterland, while Americans plaster W’s on their hummers and refuse to remove their Kerry bumper stickers from their Prius.

2. The seal on the rice syrup I bought was a tiny little paper sticker over the edge of the jar lid. Simple, small impact, effective. After my ravings about sealing mustard from nuclear holocaust, this was so very welcome. Kisses to the folks at Lundberg for thinking about the big picture and for making my day.

3. My lettuces and peas are all asprout (and untrampled by junior couscous guests, thanks to quick-acting Number One Son), and the co-op sports the most beautiful baby greens from just 20 miles away. Clearly our dance to the May Queen worked!

4. Two long-suffering folks passed away within a day of each other, both parents of contemporaries. While it stirs up sadness in my pot of grief, I am thankful that their pain is over, and that their children can move from the roller coaster stage to the work of grieving. Our class – for it is made of parents as well as children – has been through much together, and we realize that the measure of joy and sorrow contributes immensely to the texture and color of our lives.

With several dozen dirty dishes to throw in the machine and a mysterious sticky spot in the living room, Little One woke with the flu, but I am thankful for the “down” day. We will clean a little, rest a little, and not get dressed until we actually have to go out. A Very Thoughtful Friend even brought a stack of Model Railroader magazines, which will entertain my little duck for hours.

Cake of love

I have a recipe for a dessert called the Persian Love Cake. It’s not something you would find on a Persian table, but rather, it takes its cues from Persian cuisine: cardamom, rose water and pistachio lend their delicate flavors. It’s very showy, not too sweet, and extremely romantic, covered in candied rose petals and yielding in your mouth. I’ve made it for dear friends and anniversaries over the years, but this time, I’m making it for two friends who recently married. What makes it special is that they didn’t have the right to marry in the States, so they moved back to Switzerland (they’re a culturally ‘mixed’ couple like me and Darling Husband) where they chose to marry on Valentine’s day. I think a celebration is in order.

Candied rose petals
1 large egg white
¼ cup superfine sugar
Petals from 1 organic rose

The challenge of making this cake is not in the kitchen, it’s in sourcing the ingredients. I decided to make a half-cake, since Easter and lots of chocolate eggs are around the corner. The recipe starts with the garnish: candied covered rose petals. In the past, I have picked fragrant summer roses from the gardens of friends whom I know do not spray, or, in the dead of winter, have resorted to using salad flowers purchased at the co-op. Here, my fall-back plan was purchased marzipan roses and/or pansies. But I found pale pink Duftrosen, and I’ve purchased superfine sugar and free range eggs to candy them. The sugar hunt was an adventure, with many types vying for my attention: The everyday sugar used by German Hausfrauen is rather course, fine for everyday baking and sweetening coffee, but woefully inadequate for delicate rose petals. Powdered sugar is also represented, along with cubes (double-sized; if you want one lump, you have to break it in half), brown sugar, fruit sugar (as opposed to beet sugar), and jelling sugar, with added pectin. There’s also the Zuckerhut, or sugar hat, a cone of pressed sugar that features in a holiday specialty where hot rum punch is poured over the cone (I’m not really clear on this, but understand it’s a tradition not to be messed with).

Cake
½ cup cake flour
7 tablespoons baker's sugar or superfine sugar, divided
¾ teaspoons baking powder
pinch coarse kosher salt
2 large eggs, separated
4 tablespoons water
1/8 cup canola oil
½ teaspoon grated lemon peel
¼ teaspoon whole cardamom seeds (removed from about 5 green cardamom pods)

Flour in most of Europe is Type 405, a bit finer grind, with less gluten than we’re used to, but it will work fine, since there’s no separate flour used for pastry here. Baking powder in the US and the UK is what we call double-acting, and contains two leavening agents. I could go down to the pharmacy and ask for Natrium Karbonate (sodium bicarbonate) to rev up the German packet of Bakpulver, but I know from experience that this single-acting powder works well with Type 405. (There was actually a little jar of “household soda” in the baking section of the supermarket, but since they don’t list the ingredients, I’ll stick with the regular stuff, I’ll just use a wee bit more than usual.) Going down the list, everything else poses no problem whatsoever, until I get to the cardamom. Anticipating a problem, I picked up ground cardamom during my shopping spree in France earlier this week. The natural food store here in Ravensburg actually did have some, but nary a full pod of cardamom is to be seen anywhere in this burg.

Frosting
2 1/2 cups chilled heavy whipping cream, divided
Pinch of saffron threads
2/3 cup powdered sugar
1 teaspoon rose water

German whipping cream is barely thick enough to whip, but I found some organic cream at the tiny cut-rate grocery store down the street, and it should hold together. I’m also tempted by a soy product from SoyaToo that consists of a tiny aseptic package of soy milk thickened with algae that’s supposed to whip up like cream. I think I’ll stick with cow’s cream for now, though. Saffron was missing from the shelves of Kaufland, but the natural grocery in town had a packet of saffron threads from India. These will be infused into the cream, which, once whipped a bit, receives some powdered sugar to sweeten it and rose water to augment the petals decorating the cake. I was expecting to find the rose water in France, but I found nothing like it there; it was the natural food store here in Ravensburg, tiny hole-in-the-wall that it is, that gave me a precious bottle—not only rose water, but from organic roses to boot.

Garnish
2 tablespoons natural unsalted pistachios

The green nuts set off the pink rose petals nicely, but they prove quite elusive. Finally, a tiny packet beckons from a Kaufland shelf. I don’t usually pay huge attention to price, but 100 grams of green pistachios from Israel set me back nearly three Euro—close to four dollars.

Our apartment has everything I need, except a mixer, but my accommodating Mother-in-law produces her backup hand mixer that I may borrow. The oven here on the farm even offers me a convection setting, so, we’re ready to bake. I’ll pop the finished cake in the fridge, awaiting the arrival of good friends. We’re hoping for a weekend of enjoying each other’s company, making a dent in all those bottles of French wine, and finding lots of chocolate eggs.